


Fathers And Sons

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jones Brothers, ouat AU, ouat x stardust crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18077378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: When Captain Shakespeare is hired to take a man on the run and his two sons to Misthaven, he witnesses some of Brennan Jones’ parenting. He can't say that he's impressed.A one-shot set in an AU concocted by the combined efforts of too many people to list, in which Captain Shakespeare met Captain Nemo and, eventually, the Jones brothers. This one’s just a little insight into the Jones family dynamics before the Great Rowboat Betrayal, I guess.





	Fathers And Sons

Captain Theodore Shakespeare was not a man given to sentiment. At least, that was the reputation he carefully maintained; a penchant for sentiment could get a man killed in his line of work.

He also did not, as a rule, take passengers aboard. It was a lot easier to maintain his gruff persona around his equally gruff, hardened crew.

But he couldn’t refuse Brennan Jones.

The man was handsome, and charming, with a smile that Shakespeare didn’t trust for one second. “I need to get to Misthaven,” he said, putting his hands together and leaning close in a way designed to create a connection. Sympathy. “I’m sure a man of your... calibre... appreciates the need for speed and secrecy.”

Trouble, Shakespeare thought. This man was trouble.

But he had two boys with him, one of perhaps seven, the other eleven or twelve. And Misthaven wasn’t far, not for him.

“All right,” he said. “We leave as soon as my business here is concluded. You can wait by the ship.”

His initial impression proved correct over the next few days, as they made their way through the air to Misthaven. There was a saturnine air about Brennan Jones, his moods alternating between brooding gloom and wild delight and the occasional flash of tenderness as he talked to his sons.

The boys were an unexpected delight. The older, Liam, introduced himself and his little brother, Killian, with the tone and manner of a young man. A show, Shakespeare thought, and one that was ruined almost immediately when Killian said, “Younger brother.”

“Little brother,” Liam insisted, with a smug grin.

“I’m not little!”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not!”

“Boys,” Brennan intervened. “Stop.”

There was a pause. Brennan, satisfied, turned back to his conversation with Shakespeare. Shakespeare, used to listening for trouble, heard whispers somewhere below his line of sight.

“You _are_.”

“Am _not_!”

Shakespeare did not have children, nor was he ever likely to, and he was far from an expert when it came to dealing with them. But really, when it came down to it, it was quite simple.

“Hard to get them to follow any rules,” Brennan said wryly over dinner, when the boys had already scampered off again. “They’re a bit wild, especially Killian.”

Shakespeare didn’t say anything. He hadn’t had any problems getting the boys to follow the rules he’d set, but then again, he was the captain. A stern tone, a brief explanation why the rule was necessary, and that had been that. Killian had tried to argue, but once he’d lost the argument, he’d accepted it.

“I suppose it’s hard,” he offered. “Raising them alone.”

“Oh, yes.” Brennan sighed. “I love them, but sometimes... well.”

He didn’t elaborate.

Shakespeare wondered what had happened to the boys’ mother. He didn’t need to ask to know that she was dead, but he didn’t know when, or why, nor did he find out why Brennan was so eager to get away, nor what he was trying to get away from. It was better not to ask those kinds of questions in this business, but even so... most men on the run did not have children with them.

Brennan was a mystery, a man with moods as changeable and unpredictable as the sea. Calm one moment, friendly the next, and then, suddenly, stormy and almost treacherous.

It took Shakespeare no more than a couple of days to see the cracks.

He noticed the way Liam stood up straighter whenever Brennan looked at him, whether to impress his father or avoid seeming weak, Shakespeare couldn’t tell. Liam was a handsome boy, with a bright smile and a quiet intensity about him. He was smart, too, and eager to learn, full of questions about the ship and the lightning trade. But though he was friendly, Shakespeare caught a flash of guardedness in his eyes whenever anyone addressed Killian.

Shakespeare didn’t quite understand the situation until the second night, when Brennan told the boys to go to bed. Killian wanted to stay up a little longer, and Brennan lost his temper in short order and only grew more annoyed when Killian began to cry.

“Killian,” Liam said, putting an arm around his little brother. “It’s late, we have to go to bed.”

“But I wanna—”

Brennan rolled his eyes and glared at his youngest. “Stop the theatrics and act like a man, for goodness sake, we’re none of us impressed by your show.”

“Come on,” Liam urged. “Let’s go to bed, and I’ll tell you a story. Okay?”

“No stories,” Brennan snapped. “You’re to go to sleep.”

“Yessir,” Liam said at once, squeezing Killian to him, and Shakespeare knew in that moment that there would be a story, whispered in the dark once the boys were alone. “Come on, Killian, you’ll only make it worse, come on.”

Killian let his brother lead him away, tears still running down his face, and Shakespeare had to bite his tongue. The night before, Brennan himself had brought the boys to bed, and stayed to tell them a story. He might not be a father himself, but he knew the importance of consistency. Dependability.

And he remembered, all too well, being told to stop being so dramatic. Theatrics were not befitting a _man_.

_Seven years old_ , he thought. _Of bloody course he’s not acting like a man._

The next day, he watched Brennan ruffle Killian’s hair affectionately, grinning fondly as the boy took off again. Carver was teaching him how to tie knots. “Knots are important,” he’d said. “Keep everything secure in its place, see. You’ve got to get it right, otherwise...” He’d mimed a sort of explosion with his hands, and Killian’s blue eyes had widened.

An exaggeration, perhaps, but the lad had taken it to heart. There was no sign of wildness or temper as he sat bent over his task, brow furrowed, and Shakespeare thought that perhaps all that energy simply needed a focus.

“Well?” he asked, as he passed Killian by on the deck. “How’s it coming?”

Killian looked up at him. “I think I have it!”

Shakespeare hunkered down on one knee, inspecting the knot that Killian was holding. “Looks good to me, and that’s one of the hardest to master. You’ll be a pirate in no time if you keep this up.”

Killian beamed at him. “Can I show Father?”

“Of course.” Shakespeare had noticed that for all that Brennan seemed fond of the boy at times, he also had little patience for him. Liam was old enough to understand or at least guess most of what was expected of him, but Killian was only seven years old. Brennan was by turns indulgent and gruff, lenient and strict, as though he could only gather enough patience for fatherhood in short bursts at a time.

Perhaps it would help for Brennan to see his youngest making himself useful.

He watched as Killian ran across the deck to where Brennan sat playing cards with two of the crew who weren’t on duty, a glass of rum in his han. Killian was still beaming as he ran up.

Brennan looked up at him—and Shakespeare’s heart sank as he glowered at the boy and said a few words that had Killian’s shoulders drooping.

He wasn’t crying as he turned away. He was quiet. Shakespeare recognised that look. He could almost feel the sting of it, like the wind going out of the sails, happiness shattering like glass, the shards sharp and painful.

Killian turned, and flung the piece of rope out over the railing, the gesture sudden and angry and almost defiant. Holding the tears at bay.

Shakespeare swallowed. He had work to do, and he didn’t need a seven-year-old underfoot as he did it, but he decided in that moment that it didn’t matter.

“Killian,” he called. “Come on, I need your help with something.”

Killian looked up. “What?”

“I have to make sure we’re still on course,” Shakespeare said. “Very important work, and I could use your help.”

“I don’t think I can help you,” Killian said, his voice rather smaller than usual.

“Nonsense.” Shakespeare held out a hand, and gestured for Killian to follow him. “You’re just the man for the job. Come on.”

Killian looked at him. Shakespeare raised his eyebrows, and grinned. Killian gave a little shrug, an almost adult gesture, and shuffled towards him.

It was a little more difficult, ascertaining their position and finding ways for Killian to feel useful when he couldn’t use the sextant nor write down any co-ordinates, but Shakespeare made it work. And Killian’s proud smile by the end of it was worth the trouble.

The rest of the voyage passed in much the same way. Brennan spent most of it sitting around on deck or in his quarters, reading or drinking or playing dice or cards with some of the off-duty crew. Liam and Killian, meanwhile, had the run of the ship, and Shakespeare thought that they alone made the trip worthwhile. Inquisitive, intelligent, and rambunctious, they filled his ship with life in a way even his crew couldn’t scoff at. He caught young Carver telling Liam how the lightning nets worked, and Killian was constantly underfoot and never in trouble for it.

Shakespeare spent more time with them than he needed to, driven by an unnamed feeling in his chest. An urge to try and imbue Killian with a little confidence, Liam with a little solidity. To give them something to hold onto.

He said goodbye to the boys two days later, once they’d landed in Misthaven. An uneasy feeling had been lodged in his chest all day, but he told himself that it was stupid. They were passengers. It wasn’t Shakespeare’s business if Brennan wasn’t the perfect father. No parent was perfect; what mattered was that he was there, and he loved them.

And he had his own life, his own family. A man as strong as the sea, as steady and dependable as the tide, a man who was waiting for him in port even now. A man who would understand when he talked about errant fathers and lost boys and the frustration of helplessness.

Sentiment was not fitting for a pirate.

But he was going to miss them.

“Goodbye, Captain,” Liam said, his face set but a genuine smile peeking through.

“Bye,” Killian echoed, voice small and eyes wide.

“Goodbye.” Shakespeare put a hand each on their narrow shoulders. “It’s been an honour. You take care of each other.”

Liam’s chin came up. “’course.”

They walked away, trailing after their father, Killian’s hand in Liam’s. Shakespeare watched them disappear into the crowd milling about on the docks, and got back to work.

He wouldn’t hear anything about them again until months later. Word would reach him, carried around port taverns, about the wanted man who’d abandoned—no, traded—no, sold—his sons for a chance at freedom.

And he would think back to that moment where he’d watched the light die and fade from Killian Jones’ face, and clench his fists, and give new orders to a crew who, though not given to sentiment, got to work at once.


End file.
